The Foreigners
by MisterKhact
Summary: Three travelers from a vastly different world have entered the world of Nirn. For what purpose are they here for? Are their more of them? Are they descendents of the ancient Dwemer? Curiosity beckons a Winterhold student as she will uncover a new civilization that will threaten the borders between steel and magic forever.
1. Prologue: The Blizzard

_All materials from the Elder Scrolls Series belong respectfully to Bethesda Studios._

Prologue: The Blizzard

18th of Morning Star, 4E 213

***CREEK***

The metal hinges creaked with age as the entrance to the Winking Skeever opened, blowing wind and snow into the musty tavern. The chilly breeze reached out and extinguished nearby candles. On its doorstep stood a cloaked figure, her appearance shrouded beneath a heavy brown coat and overshadowed behind by the gloomy cold light. An immense stench of mead and sweat swept upon her face with a heavy blow. Reeling back, she reached out and clutched her nose in disgust. Another burst of cold wind blew past her side, rearing the foul odor back into the musty air.

"Shut the damn door you idiot!" Someone bellowed.

As commanded, the figure turned and closed the wooden door. The freezing current simply ceased to be. Without the breeze blowing against her ears, she was bombarded with sounds of laughter, guttural cheers, and the distinct sound of clanking tankards. None inside took notice of her, as if she were but a mere ghost. Snowflakes drifted away from her clothing and melted on the stone floor.

The figure made her way towards the bar; her fur boots leaving water footprints on the ground. She maneuvered her way through the busy crowd. Nords and Imperials around her yelled and laughed. Some decided to dance while others demanded more mead. Solitude guards were stationed around the tavern, keeping the peace in their own tankards.

"I think you have enough for one night, friend," the owner of the tavern said nonchalantly.

"What do you mean I can't have more mead?" One Nord yelled sternly, "I'm perfectly fine! See?"

He then decided to jump over his stool, only to end up slamming head first on the counter edge with a sickening thump. His body landed on the cold stone floor, snoring loudly around his pool of blood. The crowd around him howled with laughter.

"That's going to hurt till morning."

"It's a beautiful dance! A man mating with a dead spriggan!"

"Troll's blood! He's going to have a lump larger than the Throat of the World!"

The guards dragged the unconscious Nord to the corner of the tavern, where he slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

After the commotion had died down, the figure scanned around the area. She perched her head up high above the heads of others. Swinging it left and right, the figure struggled to find an open seat. The bar counter was completely filled, twenty people hugging it with reckless abandon. At the corner of her eye, she saw an Imperial paying gold to the bartender and left the tavern in a huff. No opportunity wasted, she hurried towards the vacant stool, bumping her shoulders against the shoulders of others. She was only an arm's length away, only to be forcefully pushed aside by another drunken Nord. The figure fell on the floor with a heavy thump and groaned in pain. A hearty laugh came out of his reeking mouth, sprinkling her coat and face with mead and spit. Wiping the vile liquid with her sleeve, she reached out and pulled her hood down. The gloomy candlelight illuminated the head of a young female khajiit. An enchanted silver sapphire circlet sat on her head. She had brown fur like the color of polished brass. Her face, along the side and neck, housed streaks of black lines. By far the most noticeable feature on her face was the splotch of black fur along the bridge of her nose. She walked behind the drunken Nord and tapped his shoulder lightly.

"What do you want, cat?" he grunted. He took another swig of mead.

"Excuse me kind sir, would this one be so kind to give Tsahari her seat?" she asked with a smile. The pool of blood still remained on the ground, the causing Tsahari to slip and fall. She slammed her hand over his shoulder at a poor attempt to gain her balance. Presumed to be an act of aggression, he shot up and glared daggers into her eyes.

"Get your dirty hands away away from me, you dirty fleabag!" Grabbing her hand, he yelled louder, "No one lays hand on Ulgruf the Mighty!" He lowered his tankard to her face, "Can't you see I'm trying to drink my mead? Find your own damn seat." He pushed Tsahari back into the crowd.

The Khajiit could fight him with a fire spell, but the guards will no sooner toss her in the cell than to ask questions how the tavern caught on fire in the midst of a snow storm. She sulked back into the crowd in defeat. Without her hood on, one of the nearby guards instantly recognized her cat-like appearance.

"Hey, you there with the fuzzy ears!" He shouted, pointing at her head, "How did you get in the city? Your kind has no pl-"

Tsahari withdrew a purse containing two hundred gold coins and dangled it in front of his face. Without hesitation, the guard snatched it right off her fingers.

"It seems everything is in order. I'll return to my post." He walked back where he was before and continued to drink his mead.

She sighed. She was now four hundred gold pieces less in this city. Bribery is all well and good until your pockets run dry of shiny coin.

The tavern was a total hive of activity. She needed a drink and she need it now. She has been traveling on that damned road to Solitude for hours, without anything to quench her growing thirst. For long stretches of time, Tsahari stood there in the crowd of fowl stench. Unwilling to give up, she waited patiently for an empty seat. And there she stood waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And waiting.

Time seemed to slow down as drowsiness slowly overtook her mind. She rubbed her eyes constantly in an attempt to stay awake. The people around her became blurred and disfigured. The chatter around her slowly echoed and garbled. Her eyelids began to droop down, but Tsahari fought against such temptation.

"This round's on me!" Someone yelled.

Everyone in the tavern cheered and clanked their tankards. The guttural roar of Nords alone knocked Tsahari back into here senses. She jumped in fright from the loud cheers of the crowd, swiveling her head around like a broken Dwemer machine. Growing increasingly desperate for a drink, she scanned profusely for any open seats she can find. By luck, she saw a Redguard sitting on the far left retrieving his coins from his pocket to pay the bartender. Tsahari's mind ran into overdrive as she desperately rushed towards the Redguard. She was ready to pounce if given the opportunity. The Redguard stood and gave the bartender a quick farewell. He squeezed his way out the tavern and gawked at the blizzard that slowly consumed the city of Solitude. Like a great wind, she quickly rushed over to the warm but empty stool. She waved to the only bartender in the tavern. Never missing out on a new customer, the bartender quickly rushed out to greet her.

"Welcome to the Winking Skeever. What can I get for you?" the bartender asked.

Stretching, she clasped her hands together and rested her elbows on the bar. "Tsahari will have the regular mead." She was very, very exhausted.

He nodded, "Sure. I'll have it in a moment."

A verbal fight broke out in the background, followed by a choir of shattered glass. Its ear piercing noise echoed throughout the tavern, along with the chanting of,

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Sighing, the bartender bent down and plucked a bottle of Nord mead from the bottom shelf, muttering something beneath his breath.

As he was filling a tankard with cheap mead, she twisted her head around to observe the cramped tavern around her. Sounds of all kinds completely filled her ears like an inferno. The tavern radiated with the smell of sweaty hands and feet. Behind the middle pillar was a woman bard playing a lute. People nearby clapped and smiled as they enjoy the sound of melody seeping into their ears. Leaning to her left, she noticed a dark green Argonian sitting in a chair alone, munching on a piece of bread. He had an admirable long scar on his left side of his face. Sensing someone watching, the Argonian lifted his head and noticed the Khajiit eyeing his appearance.

"What are you looking at, Stranger?" he scowled. His eyes glared at the cat, fully expecting her fur to spontaneously burst into flames.

A tankard full of mead plopped down on the counter, startling the young Khajiit.

"Here you go missy." The barkeeper smiled, cleaning the bar with a rag, "If you need anything else just let me know."

The Argonian shook his head and smirked at her reaction. He pulled out a second slice of bread from his pocket. Thirsty, she looked away from the lizardman and looked back at her mead. Foam rose from the tankard, dripping down towards the bar table. She took the handle and took a heavy swig before setting the tankard down, spilling a bit of mead onto the bar counter.

The bartender extended his hand to wipe off the liquid with his rag. Glancing back to the khajiit's clothing, he noticed a name stitched on the side of the cloak.

_Tsahari_

"So, what's a young cat like you doing out here in the middle of a blizzard?" He questioned.

She glanced up and pulled the stitched name underneath her cloak.

"Tsahari is just stopping by for a drink." She yawned. Tsahari rubbed her eyes to keep herself awake, "And to get away from the dreaded blizzard." She then looked to his eyes. "Tsahari is surprised how this one does not shun the Khajiit with loathing."

"Ah well, so long you don't steal anything, I'll treat you like any other Nord." He scratched his mustache, "I even had a pet skeever once. He'd wink to me from time to time, hence why I name my tavern such." The bartender put the rag back under the shelf.

Tsahari yawned, revealing her bright and razor sharp teeth.

"I got a free bed upstairs if you're willing to pay ten gold pieces." The barkeeper pointed towards the balcony above.

Yawning again, Tsahari opened her satchel beneath her cloak. She placed ten gold on the bar, clattering on impact. The barkeeper took the coins and counted them silently, before shoving them into his pocket.

"Excellent. I'll show you to your room. Right this way." He beckoned her to follow.

Trailing behind the barkeeper, Tsahari cranked her head to the right. Yet another drunken Nord was dancing upon one of the tables, surrounded by the cheers of his fellow drunks.

"Get off the table you drunken bastard!" the barkeeper angrily yelled, pointing at his face.

"Oblivion take you, old man!" the man yelled, "You're not the boss of-" The table beneath him gave away and broke clean in half, slamming the drunkard's back to the ground. Plates and utensils clattered on the floor. Mead splattered on the tiles, causing some bystanders to slip and fall. Amid the chaos, none bothered to help him, instead pointed fingers and laughed. The barkeeper facepalmed, muttering something Tsahari couldn't quite catch.

"Sorry about that. The guards will deal with him soon. Come on. Your room is right this way." He signaled the Khajiit to follow him. She nodded.

On the second floor, there was a ledge looking out the entire room. There was the shattered wooden table on the far left. The drunkard was escorted, or kicked, out of the tavern by two Solitude guards.

"Just tell me if you need anything. I'll be downstairs, where I'm always at." The bartender walked out of the room, leaving the room door open. Tsahari looked around the dark bedroom, with the aid of her night vision. The room was moderately furnished, the bed and the shelf being the largest objects. Yawning, Tsahari turned and closed the door shut. She took off her cloak and tossed it on the bed. She wore the College of Winterhold apprentice robe, accompanied by a pair of leather boots and gloves. Tired and exhausted, she pulled her leather boots to the side of the bed. She tugged her gloves off and set them on the nearest end table. Satisfied, Tsahari jumped on the bed with glee, slipping her bare feet under the heavy sheet. Poor fatigue took over her mind, as she quickly fell into a deep slumber.

* * *

A bright light appeared in the abandoned Wolfskull Cave, scaring the local fauna away. For the entire night, the light stayed as bright as the morning sun. When the dawn came did the light slowly die away, but the eerie sounds of dwarven-like machinery did not.


	2. Chapter One: The Foreigners

_All materials from the Elder Scrolls Series belong respectfully to Bethesda Studios._

Chapter One: The Foreigners

19th of Morning Star, 4E 213

The morning sun rose above the quiet city of Solitude, covered in blankets of sparkling snow. The moons of Masser and Secunda slowly receded below the opposite horizon as if they cowered in fear beneath the golden light. Its rays reached out for the windows and doors, vanquishing darkness that resided behind. The alleyways remain shadowed in darkness and to where thieves will seek to shelter. The Winking Skeever has seen the light of day, its old porous walls dully shining against the aging wood and stone architecture of the city. Tsahari opened her eyes when the sunlight shined through the window. She no sooner slammed her eyes shut when the light attacked with blinding pain. For protection, she threw a pillow on her face to shield herself against the antagonizing light. She slowly navigated her way to the window sill to block off that infernal brightness. She stretched her hand out as stiff as a board, grasping for those sills that evaded her very arm. Finally, her hand gripped the elusive sill and pulled it right across the window, eliminating all traces of light in the room. The room is once again shrouded in darkness. Tsahari lowered the pillow from her face to bask in her little victory. She looked around the room to find her clothes as she had forgotten where she had placed them. Her apprentice robes and shoes were laid neatly across on a nearby table, patiently waiting and ever still. She had more than enough time to dress this morning.

The blizzard outside had slowed to a peaceful and quiet crawl. The call of seagulls flew over the awakening city. The bells of the harbor echoed around the sea and the mighty Imperial ships groaned with age. The soft winds rustled the sheets of sails, dragging the ships back and forth. The Solitude flags, embellished the the color of red, white, black, and with head of a wolf, proudly displaying its design to the surrounding world. Slowly but surely, the people of Solitude left their homes to welcome the morning light.

Tsahari, fully dressed, left her room door open as she went down to the empty bar. All the concentrated energy that inhabited this very tavern dissipated upon the morning day. Chairs, tables, tankards, shattered glass, and utensils were haphazardly scattered all over the wooden floor. It seems some people never left to their homes, sleeping on the floor with their faces on their empty tankards. The potent smell of mead and sweat still linger in the air like a foul spirit. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet as Tsahari walked across the room, causing some to stir and groan. The same bartender sat next to the fireplace, albeit in a sour mood. He glanced up to see the mage standing before him.

"Yes?" He asked, with a mood no happier.

Tsahari opened her satchel beneath her clock. She slid five coins across the table. He looked down at the coins and sighed heavily. The bartender pocketed the coins and got up to retrieve a bottle of mead from the counter shelf.

***CREEK***

The tavern door swung wide open, blowing wind and snow into the quiet yet murky air. Curiosity tugged her brain as Tsahari looked over her left shoulder. She had to squint from the morning light, using her hand to block the harmful rays. Standing before the doorstep were three figures, their appearance shadowed from the bright light behind. They look around the tavern, observing the left over chaos that inhabited the tavern. The wooden floors echoed their noisy footsteps as they slowly approached the bar counter. One of them stopped and turned to close the door, obviously aware of the amount of cold air they were letting in. With the light no longer interfering with her eyes, she took a closer look at these newcomers.

At a first glance at their faces, Tsahari assumed they were a group of Thalmor Justiciar, seeking to eradicate any and all Talos worshipers that they all strive to enforce, but those assumptions were soon thrown out the window. Their clothing, if the Gods permit! Surely no snobby Elves would want to be seen in such messy and ragged uniforms. They all had no armor to which to speak off. Their "uniforms", if one could call it such, were all a mixture of molted green, brown, tan, and black, as if a bear painted their very clothes on the way to Solitude. Their chests were covered in a black vest, filled to the brim of numerous intricate pockets, and their thighs were adorned with black strips and wrappings. Even their molted helmets were made of cloth! The newcomer's faces seemed quite familiar but alien as well. Their skins were yellow, with a completely different facial structure. Their heads are far too short and compressed to be High Elves. They lack the long chin, exaggerated slit eyes, and the pointy ears all Elves earn at birth. Their short status would demand an ancestor of Breton origin, but Bretons do not have slit eyes or pale yellow skin. They were hybrids. Perhaps somewhere in High Rock, some High Elves and Bretons got together to make birth new mix. That still doesn't explain their choice of weapons. Their only methods of defense were some pathetic looking clubs strapped to their back. No swords, bows, or even a worthwhile wooden staff were seen on their personal. Only a tiny dagger, sheathed in the vest, was barely worthy of being a weapon. Embedded on the side of their molted-colored shoulders, Tsahari could see a bright symbol of some kind. It is perhaps an emblem to symbolize their rankings with the Thalmor, Imperial Legion, or maybe some bandits who defected for all she knows. Unfortunately, they were too far off for Tsahari to read them. She stood by the fireplace, staring at those newcomers like a predator stalking its prey.

They continued to walk in a linear fashion; that is until they saw the Khajiit mage. The newcomers paused in front of Tsahari, gawking at her appearance as if they had never seen a Khajiit in their entire lives. The looks on their faces were amusing to say the least. Being the northern most part of Tamriel, it is uncommon for some folks to lay eyes on a graceful desert walker. True to some extent; some Nord farmers remain rather ignorant of the existence of the Khajiit, let alone seeing one with their very eyes. But they are different. They were not the hardened Nords who either strive to prove their worth in battle or die for their souls in Soverngarde. Nor were they the snobby Elves who are gifted in the ways of the arcane. Fixating their eyes on her, they slowly made their way towards the table beneath the mounted bear head. The foreigners sat by the radiant warmth of the fireplace. The fire crackled and danced, devouring the logs underneath. They covered their mouths as they whisper to one another. What she saw next baffled her. Drawing their hands on the table, they waggled their fists in the air, chanting as they do it. Their arms flew to a halt, holding their fists in the air. One of them had two fingers protruding. That newcomer left the table and walked cautiously around the wreckage littering the tavern floor. He still stared at Tsahari, with a glint of curiosity in his eyes. The fireplace illuminated his almost alien face. The newcomer raised his arms high and hailed the bartender. He raised an eyebrow at the newcomer's appearance, but shrugged and followed him to the counter table.

"Welcome to the Winking Skeever. What is it that you want?" His cheery mood was gone from last night.

The newcomer garbled in a language unheard of in her life. He sounded like a man who was taught to pronounce each syllable awkwardly as if each sound had an individual meaning. The words bounced off the bartender's face, failing to register what had just come out of that newcomer's mouth. Holding his temper, he asked again.

"I'm sorry sir, but we speak only Cyrodiilic here." He scratched his head and sighed, "You know, the common tongue?" He was not in the mood for this.

The newcomer pointed at a few bottles of Nordic mead standing at the corner of the bar counter. He then sounded out six syllables, each with individual music-like tones. If he sounded out the name of the object or a full sentence, Tsahari does not know. It can be incomprehensible gibberish for all that she matters, or to annoy the bartender even further for his own amusement. The foreigner showed three fingers then pointed to himself and then his friends. The bartender glanced at him then followed his finger to his fellows sitting near the bear head. Nodding, he snatched three bottles from the bar counter and placed it in front of him.

"I assume you want three bottles of mead, right? That will be fifteen gold pieces." The newcomer raised an eyebrow, a quizzical look on his face.

"Right, um," he reached into his pocket and drew out five gold pieces. He straightened the coins in a neat line next to a bottle, "Here," he pointed, "One bottle. Five gold pieces."

Nodding, the newcomer reached towards one of many small pockets on his chest. Tsahari and the bartender winced as he opened a pocket. The sound it made was abhorrent, like if someone ripped clothes out of pure anger. He withdrew fifteen gold pieces, stained with dried blood, and gently placed it on the counter table. The newcomer took the bottles before the bartender had a chance to say anything. He walked past Tsahari, continuing to stare wide-eyed at her. His companions at the table talked to him and to each other, with the same toned syllables as before. He nodded and looked straight towards Tsahari's large but curious eyes. The newcomer reached out his hand and wagged his fingers at her. It took her a full second to register that he was beckoning her to sit with them.

She took her mead and slowly made her way towards their table. The closer she got the more tense they became. One of them reached towards an ebony dagger, strapped to his right thigh. Tsahari slowly sat down with her hands at her lap, waiting what they would do next. The one who ordered drinks pulled out a small journal of sort and began to scribble something on the paper. At this distance, Tsahari was able to clearly see their symbols, embedded on their shoulders.

It was in a shape of a shield with a gold trim. The shield was colored with blue, red, and black, each separated with a small gold line. The large red strip was adorned with a white sword and a lighting pattern. Above it, golden characters filled the rest of the space. These symbols looked daedric in origin but simplified significantly, removing the unnecessary spikes, tails, and strokes she frequently found in those conjuring tomes. The first letter was a horseshoe on its side, followed by two pillars with an interconnected bridge, a single pillar, a compressed lightning symbol, and a triangle that grew two legs.

Tsahari shot up as a paper was placed in front of her. She cautiously took the paper covered in incomprehensible symbols. What madman created this alphabet? Staring at the Khajiit scholar , the three foreigners chucked at Tsahari's wide-eyed attempt to read his paper. These symbols were completely undecipherable. Each one of them consisted of multiple lines, brackets and squares. The simplest she could find was a rectangle with a line piercing the middle. She folded the paper neatly and slipped it down her satchel. If Tsahari ever got back to the College, she'll give it to someone who could make sense of this scribbled nonsense. These newcomers were a strange bunch to be sure, but quite interesting as well. She will call them foreigners for what they are currently.

For the entire morning, the three foreigners tried to communicate to people around the tavern. Recovering from last night's activities, most of them had quite a hammering hangover. The newcomer's response was usually met by insults, laughter, and mockery.

"Did a troll bash your stupid elvish face in when you were a baby?"

"I'm sorry. I don't speak gibberish."

"Your cloths are hideous! What are you? Blind or just lacking in intelligence?"

"What's with the silly looking club on your back? It couldn't harm a skeever even if you tried!"

The overwhelming negative responses they received amount to nothing if these foreigners lack the understanding of even the basic of the common tongue. Soon, the foreigners returned to a different seat, drowning the rest of the morning with some mead. They took very careful attention to Tsahari. She swore that she heard a mechanical click from their hands, but dismissed it as a figment of her imagination.

By noon, the sun had risen up high over the busy city of Solitude. The foreigners left their empty bottles on the table and left the tavern, fully unaware that the same curious cat was tailing their very backs. Outside, the roofs of Solitude were blanketed with brilliant white sheets of snow, glittering beneath the sunlight. The sounds of vivid life and energy echoed throughout the city streets. Colorful triangular flags were adorned high above the heads of many people. The streets were crowded beyond recognition, with all manners of children running to and fro. A starving lone dog ran between the legs of the foreigners and took off into a nearby alleyway in search for food and scrap meat. Beggars slept on the streets and thieves lurk between the foul dark alleys. The poor pleaded for coin, shoving their dirty hands to the crowd of many, while others use those very hands to picket the pockets of others. The castle dour and the Blue Palace dominated the city skyline and shadowed smaller buildings like a stone goliath. Seagulls were perched on the roof while others flew over the city. They bellowed their call in the air, announcing their presence to the crowd below. The snow on the street was stained with brown and dirt, constantly trampled and kicked to those who thought less of it. Everyone's footsteps left a mark on the ground in a crunch after each step. The smell of urine and feces linger in the air, seeping through the cracks of homes and doors.

The foreigners gathered their thoughts in the mists of the rush. Their uniforms attracted the eyes of many, curious about their garments in which they wore. The foreigners paid no heed as they seem to dwell in their own sense of superiority. Tsahari assumed that they attract this type of attention everywhere they go and every step they make. The foreigners began to walk down the street, shrouded by the heads of a hundred. Tsahari had to push and shove to keep up to their rapid pace. People opened windows to discard their unneeded garbage above the heads of others. A foul smelling undergarment landed on the head of one foreigner, much to his surprise. No sooner was he about to yell when the offender slammed his window shut. His fellow buddies laughed at his misfortune, granting them a slap in the face with the same undergarment. They stop laughing and returned to their serious stature. As if anyone can be intimidated by the mess they garnish. A quarter past an hour zoomed by, the foreigners taking in the life of the city in which they tread in. The cat followed close behind. Sometimes, they would pause to observe the painfully decorated signs of shops, scribbling down on their journals. A few solitude guards walked past the group, their masked helmets hiding their rugged faces. Their eyes narrowly missed Tsahari, as she hid within the moving crowd. Up ahead, stalls upon stalls of food and weapons gathered around the city square. It was the busiest part of the city, pockets ripe for those who seek them. Upon reaching the entrance of the market, they looked around the area, interested of all the activity that surrounds them.

"Meats! Here and fresh in all of Haafingar!"

"The freshest fish fresh from the Karth River!"

"Need armor? I have a wide variety of choices for the brave adventurers!"

"Meats! Meats! Get your meats here! Got plenty of meats!"

"A sharp sword with a sharp wit will strive to survive. Get your blades here!"

"Fresh fruits and vegetables! All freshly picked and ripe for eating!"

Chickens flapped and hopped in their wooden cages, attracting the eyes of small children. They laughed and pointed at the animals with glee before being herded by their parents. Men and women around the market bartered and yelled, thrusting their hands out filled with gold coins. All manners of products were laid in front of prying eyes. The foreigners walked along the market street, leaning in and out to browse an assortment of foods and weapons sprawled around ground and stalls. One of them hefted a steel sword from the table to scan its quality. He returned the sword back to the table with a smirk on his face. Why he chose that silly metal club over a solid steel sword is beyond Tsahari's knowledge. Maybe it shoots ingots or fireballs, or perhaps an entire chicken for that matter. The Staff of Superior Chicken Throwing, that'll give Sheogorath's Wabbajack a run for its money. Tsahari grinned and chucked to herself at such thoughts. She failed to notice her apprentice hood that fell lazily on her back. Two legion soldiers stood near the stone well, keeping a keen eye for thieves and pickpockets. It wasn't long before both spotted the distinct head of a Khajiit that stood among the crowd.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be in here, cat!" He yelled, "How did you get pass the walls?" The guards gave chase, their armor clanking like a bag of tankards.

Their calls sent a chill down her spine, their shouts grew louder as they came frighteningly closer. Tsahari tugged the hood over her head and quickly merged into the growing crowd. She waded swiftly between the bodies of Nords and Imperials. The sound of heavy footsteps followed close behind. One of the guards still recognized the purple robes that she so adore to wear.

"There she is! After her!" The guards moved faster.

The guards pushed and shoved their way through the street, causing most to yell and scowl. The Khajiit took off in a sprint, dodging oncoming crates and stalls. The market area was a complete maze. Her heart pulsed faster; her eyes scanning everywhere for a place to hide. There! In the corner! Tsahari took a sharp right in the gap between two stalls and hid behind the trunk of a large pine tree. Those legions soldiers came soon after, searching frantically for that Khajiit.

"Where is she?" One yelled.

"I think the cat went over there," The other pointed to the south," She can't get far. There's only one Khajiit in this whole city."

"You make it sound easy." One complained.

"Oh, quit your gripping."

They continued down the street until their armor was no longer visible in the sea of the market. Tsahari gripped the tree behind her, her chest growing bigger and smaller. That was close. That was very close. She had barely enough money to bribe one more guard, let alone two Imperial soldiers. The Khajiit was not welcome in any Nord city, for fear of selling skooma or robbing people blind. More caution was needed if she were to further travel in this city. Or stalk the foreigners for that matter. Wait, but where are those foreigners? Tsahari franticly swiveled her head left and right, in search for those molted clothed Breton-elves. Those imperial soldiers caused her to lose track of them much to her distain. Where have those foreigners gone? Finding them in the market square was near impossible, for the amount of people walking around here. She'll have to think forward. Before the chase, one of them took a sword from a stall and examined it. Perhaps they seek finer weapons to replace those haphazard clubs on their backs. A very vague lead, but it's a lead nevertheless. The closest blacksmith was near the castle dour, but quite a distance from the market. She'll have to move quickly. There's no telling how far those foreigners got, as she lost time evading those soldiers. Tsahari took off west in a cloud of dust. She flowed through the crowd like a fish in a river, giving chase to those foreigners whom contained secrets she seeks to uncover. Tsahari hadn't had that much adrenaline and fun throughout her life as a scholar. There's no way she'll give up now.

* * *

The noon sun still shined brightly above the clear sky, purely unaware of events below. A group of bandits, seeking a good place to settle and plunder, sought a lonely cave. The cave known as Wolfskull. They entered the gloomy place, expecting to find it abandoned. They did not.

Multiple cracks of thunder hammered the quiet air. Then silence filled the void once more.

The bandits were never heard of again.


	3. Chapter Two: The Castle Dour

_All materials from the Elder Scrolls Series belong respectfully to Bethesda Studios._

Chapter Two: The Castle Dour

19th of Morning Star, 4E 213

The striking blows of the hammer echoed in the air like a beating drum. On the grounds of the Castle Dour lies the training area, where Solitude guards and Imperial Legionnaires alike hacked and slashed against the abused straw dummies. A massive crackling bonfire lit the middle like the beacon of Meridia, melting away the snow around its grasp. In one corner lays an area where guards seek to hone their skills in the ways of archery. The Solitude commander, with his dark, thick beard, barked orders like a Daedric God to the row of inexperienced archers. Their lack of skill shined as their arrows flew in the air like a clumsy goose and nicked the stone walls behind.

"What manner of shooting is this?" Yelled the Commander; clearly dissatisfied with their abysmal accuracy. "Raise your hand and aim down the shaft! Your fellow soldiers will die on the field if you can't hit a simple, unmoving target!"

One guard failed to pull the string back, the arrow cluttering uselessly on the ground. Fuming, the commander walked over and robbed the guard of his bow and arrows.

"How can yourself an archer when you can't properly pull a simple bow back?" He jabbed his finger at the guard's face.

"But pulling the strings felt like lifting a horker with one hand!" He stammered, "Let alone pulling it every cursed second!" Sweat dripped down to his chainmail, "We all have a limit you know!"

The commander stepped forward and met eye to eye, nose to nose.

"You dare talk back to your superior?" The commander yelled, boiling with anger, "Get back to the barracks!" he pointed, "For the entire week, I will have you pull that bow until your arms fall right off their sockets and your hands covered in welts." He took a deep breath, "Go!"

The defeated guard lowered his head as he walked back to the city barracks, a cloud of shame weighing upon his shoulders. Guards and soldiers stared at his depressing stature and whispered to one another. The commander's fuming temper still lingered in the air; they resumed their training, lest being yelled at.

All this commotion was all captured by the eyes of three amused foreigners. They talked among themselves, clearly satisfied of what they had seen. One of which scribbled something in his journal, carefully observing the guards and their sword play. Continuous mechanical clicks emitted from their hands and fumbled around one of their many chest pockets. They talked to one another in the same garbled tone heard in the tavern, but were drowned out by the hive of grunting and yelling men. They walked deeper into the training ground with a sense of amazement on their faces. The snowy mountain where Solitude stands towered into the sky like a giant frost atronach, ramming its head into the sky as a challenge to the Gods. The foreigners admired the old stonework built around the Castle Dour with Solitude guards watching down from the ramparts. At a distance were two legionnaires, standing by the door of the Castle Dour, their Imperial armor gleaming in the sunlight. More mechanical clicks emerged from those foreigners as they quietly observed the statue-like Imperials.

"A Khajiit!" Someone yelled, "It's time for you to leave the city, cat."

There were some grunting and shuffling, before a fire lit up between the guards.

"My arm!" A guard exclaimed, falling over to his side, "It burns!"

"A magic user! In the name of the Jarl, catch that damned cat!" Another guard pointed at the fleeing Khajiit.

Tsahari slipped between the grasping arms of guards and ran right into the training ground. Everyone, including the foreigners, turned their head to the noisy commotion in the background. Ten guards chased after the cat, their heavy footsteps stampeding towards the Castle Dour. Tsahari stared in bewilderment at the mass of guards collected on the training grounds. She did not notice the bulging rock that lay beneath her foot. She fell on the cold hard ground, injuring her hands as she tried to soften her fall. The momentum caused her to hit her head on small pile of dirty snow. Guards and soldiers alike stood around her like the walls of an arena.

"You have committed crimes against the people of the Jarl. What do you say in your defense?" One ordered, standing before her with his Nordic guard helm reflecting the clear sunlight. Tsahari tried to speak, but the throbbing headache she took from the fall prevented such.

"Silent, eh? Let's see how long you'll stay silent before we send you to prison." He said, withdrawing ropes to tie her hands.

Noisy footsteps came closer to the group of guards with each passing second. The guards turned and looked to see three oddly dressed elves running towards them with their arms flailing. They yelled gibberish sounds at the top of their lungs. The guards around stared at them with utter confusion. If one could see beneath the guards' helmets, they kept their mouths open and their eyes squinting. The foreigners stood before the guards and Tsahari, and made wild pointing gestures. With all his gibberish nonsense, one of them pointed at the Khajiit mage then pointed back at himself. This granted nothing but amusement for the other guards. Some chucked and laughed at their ridiculousness.

"By the Gods! Quit yelling about!" A guard said, interrupting the foreigner's little act, "Speak like a proper man, and be quick. We have a criminal to haul."

"This one is my owner," Tsahari lied, wiping blood from her forehead, "This one cannot speak the common tongue, but they have raised Tsahari as a child." I hope those foreigners cooperate. This is a last ditch effort to escape being sent to prison. The guard looked at her, then back to the foreigners.

"Is this true?" The guard pointed at Tsahari, "Did you raise the cat?" He pointed at him. The foreigner nodded furiously, completely oblivious to what he just said.

"Very well then, the cat is yours," he signaled one of the guards to push Tsahari back to the foreigners, but only caused her to fall once again, "But if any of us find that cat assaulting or stealing anything, we will haul her to jail whether you like it or not." The guard placed the ropes back to his belt, "Since you will be taking responsibility for her actions, the fine is forty gold pieces for the assault of a guard." He reached out his open palm.

The three foreigners hustled together and whispered quietly to each other, exchanging and counting coins beneath their breath. One of them turned and handed the guard forty gold pieces. He took the coins and slipped down his satchel.

"I believe we are done here." Satisfied, the guard turned and shooed other guards away.

Everyone shuffled off to their own duties, leaving the foreigners and the Khajiit to their own affairs. Tsahari slowly pulled herself off the ground, leaving an imprint of her rear on the dirty snow. The foreigners communicated again with their nonsensical sounds before leaving the Castle Dour. One of them stopped and wagged his fingers at her, just like the bartender from the night before. Kicking up a cloud of snow, she jogged after the foreigners.

"Tsahari thanks this one for saving her from the guards," she thanked, "Is there anything Tsahari can repay you with?" The foreigners looked at her, raising an eyebrow. Again they wagged their fingers at her, beckoning her to follow them. Perhaps I will ask another time. They walked down the slope to the city market, the magnificent Blue Palace dominating the background.

The afternoon sun dipped slowly behind the mountain, casting a deep shadow that hovered over the city. Darkness reign supreme where sunlight once touched. Thieves and pickpockets slowly emerged from their hiding, praying for those whose purses are fat with gold. Men and women beckoned their children to follow them closely, afraid of lowly scum that slithers in the dark alleyways. The foreigners were in a hurry as they quickly maneuvered through the crowd and towards the main gate. Huddled close was Tsahari, her heart pounding with excitement. She knew not the place they will next go. Perhaps they are boarding their ship back to where they came, taking her along as a possible acquaintance. Tsahari was too young and inexperienced to see the dangers of following strangers. If she did, she did not care, as reading books for the rest of her life in a secluded room of the College sounds gruesomely boring and lonely.

Tsahari and the foreigners walked forever through the streets, avoiding stares from people passing by. Up ahead, a peach-colored argonian wearing hide armor leaned against the poles of a perfume shop. People took care to avoid him, as he will shove his snout to the business of others. His yellow lizard eyes darted around, until he laid eyes upon the foreigners. With a glee, he said,

"You're not from around here are you?" He asked, attracting the foreigner's attention.

They just stood there, gawking at him, like they have never seen a lizardman before. So it appears that these elf-like foreigners are ignorant of the existence of the beast race.

"You're new. I'm new too. Perhaps we could be friends." The argonian smiled, baring his razor sharp teeth in display. The foreigners just kept staring at him, scanning him from head to toe. One of them rubbed his eyes, assuming he was just but an illusion. He was not. Agitated at their behavior, he thought twice of hiring them.

"If you're so keen to stare at me all day, why not do it at one of the guards here?" He glared, "I have other business to attend to." Then he walked off down the street. Tsahari was bemused by the foreigner's reaction to the argonian. One of them elbowed his friends from their hypnosis state and ushered them to continue forward. Tsahari followed close behind, shaking her head with a smirk.

Emerging from the commercial district, where street remain crowded, Tsahari and the foreigners walked in the square where once a guard was beheaded. They came upon the large entrance to the city of Solitude; its beautifully decorated doors contrasted the dull gray stones of its hinges. It remained open for all travelers that seek to live or visit here. Two guards that stood by stared at the strange little group that walked past the large gate. They looked at each other, and shrugged. Maybe we've been drinking too much mead lately.

Fields of farmland lay beyond the walls of the city, struggling to grow in the cold weather. No one could have thought that a blizzard may strike here, of all places. It caught all farmers by surprise from the day previously, forced to shelter in their homes while the storm outside ravaged their precious crops lying hopelessly outside. Tsahari and the foreigners walked down the icy stone path, watching their every step, taking care not to slip and injure oneself. Travelers, carriages, and mercenaries traveled to and fro on the road, ignoring the oddly dressed foreigners, as they too are watchful for the icy ground. The windmill beyond stood proudly by the Solitude Stables, ice melting from their wooden wings. The smell of manure and hay filled the air like an expanding cloud. The foreigners took no heed of the foul air while the Khajiit's sensitive nose struggled to breath. Tsahari clenched her nose with her sleeve as they walked past the stables.

They continued down the trotted path until trees began to cover their entire view. Snowflakes drifted from the spike-like leaves of towering trees. Old and new footprints littered the pure white snow. It was all silent, save for sounds of bird calls and the water beating against the shoreline. It all caught Tsahari by surprise when a disembodied voice emitted out of nowhere. The foreigners paused as they saw Tsahari's fright. It sounded eerily similar to the same garbled tongue the foreigners conversed with each other. Again, the demon voice sounded, but now she saw it originates from the foreigners themselves. One of them reached to a black box embellished on his left shoulder and talked to it, much to Tsahari's confusion. The daedric-like disembodied voice replied back to him. One of them saw her discomfort, and patted her in the back, assuring the Khajiit all was alright. We are not in danger. That did little to sooth her mind. Were they daedric soldiers in disguise or were they the actual people of the Dwemer, assumed to have disappeared thousands of years ago.

She continued to ponder the thought, until she stood rigidly still and stared ahead. The foreigners heard her pause and looked back at her frozen stance. They turned to look to where she stared.

Multiple agents of the Thalmor Justiciar marched closer, their golden armor made fit for the people of Mer.


	4. Chapter Three: The Thalmor

_All materials from the Elder Scrolls Series belong respectfully to Bethesda Studios._

Chapter Three: The Thalmor

19th of Morning Star, 4E 213

Tsahari stood in fear at the appearance of the Thalmor. Known as the victor of the Great War; feared and hated by many. They arrogantly establish themselves as superior to Men, blatantly accusing everyone else as an inferior being. These High Elves envisioned Men as a hindrance to their rightful claim to the world. They do not consider Talos to be a God, as he was a mortal man on the plane of Nirn. The Thalmor abolished this worship, as they claim it to be heretical. In turn, this fueled a rebellion throughout Skyrim known to most as Stormcloaks, fighters of the true Nord people and seek to establish Skyrim as its own independent province. The Empire, at the end of the Third Era, struggled to retain its foothold throughout the provinces of Tamriel since the sacrificial death of Martin Septim, the last heir to the throne. Provinces around Cyrodiil began to recede from the Empire, aware of its crumbling state. When the Empire was flung into total war against the Aldmeri Dominion; the Empire fought and lost. They signed the White-Gold Conduct, establishing a brittle cease fire between both the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, at the expense of outlawing Talos worship.

The Thalmor agents, six of them, walked up towards the group. Their golden armor shined in the evening light, their gleaming swords fixated to their hilts. Some had no weapons, preferring destructive spells from the power of arcane arts. Their golden eyes glanced around the wilderness, rabbits and foxes rummaging about, until they saw the Khajiit. A Thalmor Justiciar took no heed of her, aware of the alliance between the Aldmeri Dominion and these cat-people. It was until he saw the three foreigners, dressed in their ridiculous outfits and their Elven-like faces, that his blood began to boil. They had some features of the High Elves, but also short and non-elegant. Are they some offspring of some damn High Elf and Breton couple? No. He won't have some disfigured _thing_ tainting the blood of the purest race. I do not allow such a thing to exist! They even wear hideous clothings, as if they knew they were unworthy of living. He notified his fellow soldiers, sharing the same feelings of disgust as the Thalmor Justiciar did. He looked at the Khajiit, his brows furrowed with anger. She will die too, for accompanying such foul and distasteful creatures. They were an easy target. Neither did they have swords nor did they have the competence to learn the ways of the arcane.

"You there," one of them shouted to the foreigners, "Halt in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion."

The foreigners looked at them in surprise, scanning their golden armor embellished with many intricate carvings. Tsahari stared from the back, frozen in fear. These Thalmor Justiciar will find any reason to kill or murder. Even a weird look grants a sharp sword to the gullet. The Thalmor Justiciar shouted in confidence.

"As the proper Justiciar of the Aldmeri Dominion, I proclaim you and your cohorts unfit to walk in the plane of Nirn. You are a blemish to the true race of Mer and will die a miserable death." The soldier withdrew his sword, the sunlight reflecting off its polished gold surface. The rest of the Thalmor Justiciars did the same, a choir of ringing metal. The foreigners, by instinct, withdrew their clumsy metal sticks from their back and aimed at the Thalmor Justiciar.

How cute. They thought, with a smirk on their faces. They think they can defend themselves.

"The Khajiit will die as well, for the act of accompanying tainted blood of the true Elves." The Justiciar continued on.

The Thalmor soldiers lunged at them, their swords tempered and ready to kill. Tsahari readied her flame spell. If she will die, she will die fighting.

***CRACK***

A crack of thunder pierced sensitive ears as the Justiciar's back exploded into a fit of blood and shrapnel, spraying the bewildered soldiers behind with liquid red. His demolished body fell down lifelessly on the blood-soaked dirt; his sword clattering uselessly on the ground. The foreigners shouted their nonsensical words, threatening them with their loud metal sticks. A single golden object fell out from one of their noisy clubs. It rolled along the ground until it halted at the foot of a Thalmor soldier. In pure anger, one of them charged a lighting spell in his hand, the glow illuminating the shocked faces of the High Elves. He aimed at one of the foreigners and blasted him, launching his body to the ground. The Thalmor Justiciars knocked themselves out of their shocked state and charged once again in fury, to avenge the death of one of their fellow soldiers. Tsahari flung multiple flame balls at their bodies. It did nothing to impede their charge, scorching only the brows on their enraged faces. The Khajiit slowly step backwards, ready to abandon and run. while the foreigners stood still, aiming their metal clubs at the oncoming Thalmor.

What are they doing? She thought. Are they insa-

***CRACK* *CRACK***

** *TATATATATATATA***

The Thalmor Justiciars erupted into a fountain of bloody red mist; their armor rendered completely useless to block the deadly onslaught. A shower of golden objects, that launched itself from the thunder sticks, fell to the ground like the sound of a spilled purse. It seems the power of thunder befell on these foreigners as death rained down on the Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion. Tsahari cowered in pain as she covered her ears, the cracks of thunder hammering her eardrums like the force of a thousand Orcs.

*click* *click* *click*

The sounds of horror ceased, leaving a pile of broken and shattered Thalmor corpses on the ground, stained with the pure blood of Mer. In the distance, an injured Thalmor Justiciar limped away from the carnage; a gashing hole in his leg. He'll bleed to death long before he reaches a settlement. These Thalmor Justiciars never got the chance to swing their swords once. Their years of training went to naught as the foreigner's weapons slaughtered them without effort. They were frighting, loud, and deadly. If the Imperial legion ever got hold of these weapons, it will be the Elves turn to cower in fear. They will remain unchallenged for hundreds of years! Their magics must be a new sort of element. They must be thunder staffs, compressed and easy to aim unlike those traditional staffs, unwieldy and heavy. Groans of pain snapped Tsahari out of her thoughts. Next to her, the lighting-struck foreigner groaned in pain. His fellow friends rushed over to help him, trying to heal his suffering. One of them took the same black object and spoke. His voice was stricken with panic and fear. The small black object replied with the same daedric-like voice as before, but with more haste. Tsahari just stood there, feeling completely useless to help. She was not skilled in the art of Restoration compared to her fellow scholars, but she makes a decent alchemist. Tsahari bent over and rummaged through her satchel.

A quill. No.

Potion of Magika. No.

Paper.

Frostbite Poison.

Inkwell.

Potion of Small Health. Here it is.

Tsahari took the small vial, filled with pale red liquid, and gave it to one of the foreigners. He stared at it in confusion. With a little hesitation, he took the potion from her hands and uncorked the top. The foreigner smelled it curiously, before reeled back in disgust. He looked back at Tsahari and did a pouring motion with the vial. Tsahari repeated the motion, but over her mouth. He went over to his injured friend and poured a stream of the liquid into his mouth. The injured foreigner opened his eyes wide and spat out in disgust. He then realized some of his pains had disappeared. Snatching the potion from his friend, he held his breath and took a swig of the potion. Finished, he tossed the empty vial to the side, coughing at the horrid taste of the potion. He hopped back to his feet like he was never injured in the first place. His friends stared at him in surprise, then rushed to hug. The one Tsahari gave the potion dragged her into the group, patting her on the back for her efforts. She felt extremely proud of what she did today, and savored the moment. Amid the silence, the daedric-like voice sounded yet again. A foreigner replied to the black object with his strange tones. The two exchanged a small conversation, Tsahari perking her ears with curiosity. Then all was silent. The three foreigners went towards a fallen tree and sat above it, clearly waiting for someone. With nowhere else to go, she stood by them, curious of whom they were waiting for.

The evening sun slowly dipped into the horizon, creating a hazy yet beautiful yellow and orange sunset. The Khajiit yawned, tired of everything that had happened today. The smell of rotting flesh, obviously from those Elven corpses, began to kick in. Whoever they were waiting for, they better arrive soon. The smell would attract large predators for miles. One of the foreigners lifted his wrist in front of him. There was another black devise strapped to his wrist Tsahari didn't see before. It could be a watch of some kind, the way the foreigner glanced at it. A flock of birds erupted out of nowhere, flying away from the direction they were facing. The strange sound of machinery grew louder by the second. There seems to be two mage lights hovering above the ground. The three foreigners smiled while the Khajiit stared in confusion. The two lights came closer and closer until Tsahari's eyes can no longer bare the blinding light. She peaked through her hands, blocking the rays of brightness, and laid eyes on the strangest piece of machinery, covered in a shade of green. The sides of the mechanical carriage opened, revealing two of more of these molted clothed foreigners. They sounded glad seeing the three foreigners, but upon seeing Tsahari, they raised their thunder staffs in panic. The Khajiit stood in fear, her feet rooted to the ground. She had seen the destructive power these thunder staffs hold. If they unleashed its horrors on her...

The foreigners she knew ran towards them, yelling and shouting in panic. The other foreigners hesitantly lowered their thunder clubs, obeying their command. One of them pointed a finger at the Khajiit and garbled their unknown language. The three foreigners replied them back in the same garbled tone. Walking to the side of the machinery, they beckoned her into the monstrous horseless metal carriage, inside full of strange instruments to behold. She hesitantly climbed on board, the growls of the carriage hammering her sensitive ears. Looking around, she gawked at all the objects that hung from the floors and walls. Black vests, straps, boxes, and ropes of kinds littered the area. In the front of this loud carriage were two seats, sat by the two foreigners that pointed their staffs at her. More daedric-sounded voices emitted from the front, the foreigners, all around her. Tsahari sat in excitement and fear. This is a new discovery! What secrets of other magic do they behold? What manners of engineering had they kept as a secret? Everyone from the College would maim and kill for this horseless metal carriage and everything inside it. But she has the first hand privilege to travel in one of these wonders.

The rest of the foreigners closed the metal doors and strapped a thin robe over their bodies. The three foreigners look at Tsahari, expecting her to do the same. One reached over and pulled a thin rope from the carriage walls and pulled it across her body. He shoved it next to her seat with a satisfying click. One of the foreigners yelled his tonal language at the front and the carriage heaved with movement. The metal carriage began to rock back and forth driving across the bumpy ground beneath. All this motion made Tsahari ill, her head becoming light and dizzy. Upon reaching the road, it slowly gained speed, traveling faster and fater than any horse can hope to do. Tsahari, wide-eyed in fear, held a death grip at the sides of her seat, uneasy at the speed they were traveling at. All the foreigners laughed at her, as if they knew she would do that. The metal horseless carriage traveled into the heart of Haafingar, its big black wheels kicking dirt and snow into the air. The sun slowly dipped below the horizon, sending the world into a beautiful yet dangerous night.


End file.
